


Locked and Loaded

by nuricurry



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: F/M, Sexual Content, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-28 21:53:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15058598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuricurry/pseuds/nuricurry
Summary: "As the telling signs of age rain down, a single tear is dropping through the valleys of an aging face, that this world has forgotten"She wasn’t the empathetic friend, the stern comrade. She was just the woman who slipped into his apartment through his window with blood and rain soaking her clothes, and a memory card full of her next paycheck tucked away in her pocket.





	Locked and Loaded

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gravy_tape](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gravy_tape/gifts).



The loud clang of recoil is still burning in her ears as she dives into a nearby hallway, narrowing avoiding another bullet that is aimed too low, in hopes of catching her once she hit the floor. She makes it behind cover, and flattens herself against the wall, breathing ragged and heart racing, thinking only of an escape route, or perhaps some trick to get the upper hand.

Something wet and warm drips onto her shoulder, and she feels a burning line across her cheek. Quickly lifting a hand, she wipes it against the area, and is greeted by the sight of bright red blood smeared across her knuckles. It seems the first shot done a little more than narrowly miss. 

Patting down her side, seeking the familiar shape of any sort of tool hidden beneath her clothes, she finds only the waistband of her slacks and empty pockets. 

Well, of all days to forget her purse.

She smiles ruefully to herself, though, another warning shot rings out and she’s brought back into the moment, and her expression hardens, as her brain flips through every plan and scenario she can think of. The approach of footsteps is a counting down timer, a clock she has to beat, or otherwise suffer the consequences. Just as a shadow appears around the edge of the hall, she straightens up, and allows her gun to drop to the floor, both of her hands raised into the air. The sound causes her pursuer to act reflexively, and he raises his gun as he turns the corner, and it’s sight is trained right on her heart. 

“Whoa now, you don’t need to be so excited,” Ada teases, her voice soft and velvety as she slips into well practiced Portuguese, “I’m willing to surrender. I know when I’m beat, after all.” 

The hired muscle seems to hesitate for a moment, and that alone speaks volumes. Ada says nothing herself, however, she simply smiles a little wider, and tilts her head slightly, a gesture that always seems to help deliver the doe-eyed look. The guard at last makes up his mind, and he does it by squaring his shoulders and putting on a frown, still holding his gun and gesturing with. “Turn around,” he orders, and she obediently complies, turning around for him, her hands still raised, as he approaches her, and she hears the familiar click of handcuffs being popped open.

He’s only an inch away from her with his gun in her back when she finally strikes. Her foot kicks back, and up, catching him high enough in the thigh that her heels nearly find their target of his groin, and it’s painful enough that he begins to buckle, and she uses that moment of shock to reach back, and grab onto the shoulders of his shirt, and heave him over her shoulder. He lands on the ground with a thud, but by then she’s already running, darting back the way he came, and she nearly makes it around the corner before he’s able to get a shot at her, and she feels heat and pain scorch through her side, and she almost loses her breath, but she doesn’t stop running. At the end of the hall, there’s a window, and she keeps running towards it, as the guard finally gets back to his feet, and tries to give chase, shooting bullets at her as she makes her way down the hall. Several of them pierce the glass-- as she had hoped-- and with that compromised structure, all she needs to do is lift her arm to shield her face as she barrels through it, the glass shattering around her and giving her an escape, as she falls from a second story window, and right into the bushes below. 

 

Two hours later she’s crawling up a fire escape in the pouring rain, navigating the narrow turns and tight corners, until she reaches a window on the fourth floor, which easily opens with quick pull. Dropping inside, she begins to leave a puddle on the hardwood floor, and she tries to look around in the dark for something to soak it up, when, suddenly, there’s a click and the light overhead flares to life, and she’s exposed.

“Good evening Leon,” she says casually, as if she had just knocked at his door after being invited over. Leon Kennedy says nothing, he just watches her from where he stands across the room, lingering in the doorway with his hand on the lightswitch. They stare at each other for a few moments, before Ada decides to speak up again. “Would you mind fetching me a towel? I figure you might want your security deposit back.” 

For another beat, Leon remains still and silent, before he disappears into the next room, and she hears him rummaging around. With a glance, she takes in the sparsely decorated but somehow still disorganized clutter of Leon’s living room. There’s a coffee table littered with newspapers and manilla folders, photos paperclipped to some, and others with big red lines of marker scribbled across them, a beat up old couch with a ratty blanket and a few articles of clothing scattered across it, and in the corner there’s even a potted plant that looks as if it died about six months ago that Leon has yet to do the honor of getting rid of. She’s nearly at the point of moving over to his bookshelf to see what his selection is, when Leon at last returns, and tosses her a towel, one that’s thankfully dark in color and worn-- easily thrown away. She had just lifted it to run it over her damp hair when she caught a whiff of the fabric and she makes a face, before looking over at Leon incredulously. “A dirty towel, Leon? Well, don’t you know how to treat a lady.”

He shrugs. “I haven’t done laundry in awhile.”

That remark, along with his uncharacteristically reserved attitude has Ada properly giving him a look over, having not really taken the opportunity before. With that glance, she sees the messy, slightly oily appearance of his hair, the rough untrimmed stubble on his jaw, his unkempt and stained clothes, made up of more wrinkles than anything else. She had never seen Leon Kennedy look so much like hell, and she saw him through all of the worst days of his life. 

“What’s up with you?” she asks, using the towel regardless of it’s smell, and trying to remove most of the moisture, “Have you been working overtime on some sort of case?”

“I’m on vacation,” he corrects her, “I’m experiencing the proper life of a middle aged bachelor. You know, like normal people,” he says, with a wave of his hand. Ada quirks her eyebrow at that, not quite understanding the source of his odd behavior. 

“‘Like normal people’?” she echoes, “Really? Are you really someone who can be ‘normal’ Leon?”

It’s quick, but there’s a flash of something dark through his eyes, and it causes her to pause, watching him, until Leon turns away, and retreats back into the other room without a word. Dropping the towel on the floor to mop up any of the mess she left behind, Ada follows after him, curious about the shifts in his demeanor. 

The room she walks into is the kitchen, and much like the living room, it’s in disarray. Piles of dishes fill the sink and line the counters, and the trash overflows from the can and onto the floor. Leon has dropped himself down onto one of the two chairs arranged around the kitchen table, and on top of it is a large bottle of whiskey, that is more than half empty. Leon picks up a glass in his hand, and downs whatever amount of liquid was left inside before Ada could see how much, but soon after refills it, pouring in much more than is typically had with a drink so strong. 

“What are you doing?” she asks him, as she stands a few feet away, still glancing around the room, not quite sure where her eye should land before she begins to talk to him. “What’s going on, Leon?”

“A nightcap,” he counters, and lifts his glass up to her, as if in salute, “Care to join me?”

As Ada looks over at the table again, her sharp gaze catches sight of something she didn’t catch before. Just under a few paper bags from various takeout restaurants, she sees the dark handle of Leon’s pistol, within reach of him and his half-drained bottle. In a few strides, Ada crosses the room, and quickly scoops up the gun, turning it in her hand to see if it’s loaded. It is, and the safety is off. 

Her dark eyes flicker back to Leon’s once again, but he doesn’t react, he doesn’t make excuses or even look ashamed. He just watches her, almost as if he’s waiting to see what she will do. 

Perhaps someone else would give him a lecture. If she was someone like Claire, or Chris, she could snap at him, shake his shoulders, and chastise him for being stupid and dangerous around a weapon he should know all too well how to handle. Maybe if she was Chris Redfield, she’d demand answers, pushing and pushing until Leon finally broke this strange silence of his, and finally opened up to her.

But, she was none of those people. She wasn’t the empathetic friend, the stern comrade. She was just the woman who slipped into his apartment through his window with blood and rain soaking her clothes, and a memory card full of her next paycheck tucked away in her pocket. 

Ada takes the gun in her grip, and lifts it, pointing it in Leon’s face. He doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t look hurt or betrayed. He simply leans his body forward, until his forehead is pressing against the muzzle, and closes his eyes. 

“God, you’re an idiot Leon Kennedy,” she tells him, as she pulls the pistol away, and releases the clip, before cocking the slider, to remove the bullet from the chamber as well. Even with that, Leon says nothing, and instead just leans back in his chair, head rolling back on his shoulders. 

“I’ve never seen you decline an invitation to shoot me,” Leon remarks, dry and sarcastic, and the corner of her mouth turns upwards slightly.

“It’s no fun when you’re asking for it.”

Leon barely musters up the energy to laugh at that, though the sound is hardly amused. With him seemingly avoiding her eyes, Ada steps away from him, moving towards one of the nearby counters, so that she can pull open a drawer, and place the gun inside. Put away for now, she looks back over at Leon, who has managed to lift his head once again, and his gaze at last meets hers.

There is a rawness behind those blue eyes, giving her the feeling as if she is looking into an open wound, though, unlike actual wounds, with blood and gore and mess, that look is somehow more difficult to stomach. Without saying anything, she crosses the room again, and reaches out, fisting a hand in his stringy, filthy hair, forcing his head back holding him in place as she looks down. Leon inhales, preparing to speak, but she cuts him off before the words are even formed in his throat, sealing his lips with a hard kiss. 

_Don’t_ , she conveys silently with that forceful contact, _Don’t ask that of me_.

Within a matter of minutes, they are stumbling their way down his hallway and into his bedroom, knocking into furniture and walls as they go along. Her back hits the edge of the doorframe at an angle that makes the wound in her side flare and protest, reminding her of it’s presence, and she hisses into his mouth, but doesn’t stop moving, despite Leon’s second of hesitation. She only reaches down for the waistband of his jeans and tugs at it firmly, informing him of her priorities in that moment. He guides her to the bed, and encourages her to sit down first-- always the gentleman-- while he pulls his shirt over his head, and allows it to drop to the floor beside him. On the left side of his chest, there is a scar, one she knows well. It’s a scar that might not have happened, had they never met, and it is certainly one that likely could have been made a little cleaner, if she had not been forced to pull a bullet out of his chest with nothing but her fingers and a few bent hairpins. It is far from the only scar that marks his body, but it’s the one she knows best, the one she’s been familiar with the longest, and her eyes always seem to navigate there when he begins to strip. Almost as if to check if it is still there, a reminder for him, and for her, as to the thread that has been tying them together for the past fourteen years.

She’s pulled from her thoughts by Leon kneeling down in front of her, and taking one of her feet into his hands, helping her slip off her boots which are still waterlogged from the rain. He does one shoe, then the other, and before he can go anywhere else, Ada kicks her legs up, and drapes both of them over Leon’s shoulders. “You ever going to repay a lady for what I did in Spain?” she asks him with an insinuating smirk, as she tightens her legs slightly around Leon’s neck, pulling him in tighter to her body.

“I’m pretty sure I’ve returned the favor quite a few times since then,” he remarks, which makes Ada smile a little wider.

“Refresh my memory.”

Leon pushes up the hem of her skirt, and pulls her underwear down, sliding it off her legs before Ada returns them to his shoulders, and once that’s done, he tips his head forward, to put his mouth against her. 

In some ways, she prefers him this way. His mouth is kept busy, and she gets a moment of distraction, a short reprieve to enjoy nothing else but the feeling of Leon eating her out, and the satisfaction that came with it. He’s always been attentive, if not eager, and after so many years, he’s long since figured out what she enjoys, and what feels best. He never disappoints, and after she’s found that first wave of pleasure, he pulls away from her, just enough to look up into her face. 

Her hand reaches for his hair once again, only, rather than grabbing it as she had before, she brushes his too-long bangs away from his face, pushing them off of his forehead. 

The place he had just rested against the barrel of a gun, not even half an hour before.

“Ada,” he says her name, and it stops that train of thought before it goes any further than that. Recovering her composure easily, she smiles at him once more, before she beckons him closer with a coaxing curl of her finger. 

His pants and boxers are roughly pushed off his hips, and while Leon struggles a bit with stepping out of them, she goes about unbuttoning her blouse, and allowing it to slide off her shoulders. She also unhooks her bra, but she allows him to be the one who takes it off, knowing he’s gets an almost teenage-like spur of excitement when he does, though, that night, his usual giddiness is absent, and the motion is almost mechanical, though, she pushes thoughts of that aside, as she tugs him down onto the bed beside her, and rolls on top of him. 

If he was distracted a moment before, it doesn’t last for long. They soon fall into their well-experienced rhythm, her body moving atop of his as he shifts and thrusts in sync beneath her. In the heat of the moment, his hand slightly slides up her hip, and brushes against the wound from the bullet earlier, and once more, she lets out a sound of discomfort, but as Leon looks up at her, she shakes her head. 

“Don’t worry about it,” she says through a series of ragged gasps, “I’ve had worse.”

“Sex, or gunshot wounds?” Leon asks, and Ada doesn’t bother to hold back her laugh.

After that, she notices him be slightly more gentle with her. He’s more mindful of his hands, and he shifts in ways that won’t aggravate her injury too much, without compromising too much of their pace. Her vulnerability seems to give him something to focus on, a distraction from whatever thoughts might be going through his head, and so she doesn’t make a point of revealing she’s aware of the difference.

She can’t make those earlier thoughts of his go away, but at least she can push them aside, at least for a little while longer.

Hours later, after they’ve finished several rounds of sex, and Leon has fallen asleep, Ada lies in the bed beside him, taking in the sight of his slumbering face across the pillow. With measured movements, careful enough not to wake him, her hand raises, her index finger pressing against the center of his forehead, while the rest form the shape of a mock gun.

“...Maybe another day, it’ll come to that,” she whispers to him, not expecting him to hear it, but then, Leon’s voice rumbles deep within his chest.

“I’m holding you to that, Ada,” he says, as his eyes open, locking with hers.


End file.
